Christmas and STEAMMing Hot Chocolate
by theMatthewReview
Summary: A holiday treat for all my fellow STEAMM Shippers!


A STEAMM-ing Mug of Drinking Chocolate for you, dear agncatz! (From _the Matthew Review)_

**Christmas, 1922.**

_Let us assume the sweetest and best, that Sybil and Tom are bringing up Sybbie and expecting a little brother or sister, that Matthew and Mary rejoice in their fifteen month old son's milestones and hope for another child, and that Edith, having taken Matthew's advice about Michael Gregson, is about to have her patience rewarded - just in time for Christmas!_

_With all my best wishes for a blessed and Happy Christmas, may I present you with a little treat that starts out as one might wish for Lady Mary and hints at what one might hope for Lady Edith. This will probably be longer than I first thought._

_**CHAPTER ONE: A Secret for Christmas**_

Lady Mary, her loving husband Matthew, and their beloved son George all had a standing appointment together for tea on Saturday afternoons, taken in the little boy's nursery at 2:30 sharp, or thereabouts. That private, precious few hours was one of their favourite times of the week. A few Saturdays before Christmas, special treats were to be had in anticipation of the Saviour's birth - Daisy Mason had been trying out new recipes for biscuits and savouries, and from 'Mr. Matthew's' little family the plucky young lady got appreciation and support. With the usual Earl Grey and the nice cold milk came rusks and blackcurrant jam, finger sandwiches with smoked salmon and watercress, and teething biscuits for the littlest Crawley.

The sight of 'Georgie' gumming his teething biscuit greatly amused his parents, though his first solid foods were serious business, as, of course, the lad was not to choke. At one point Baby took the biscuit out of his mouth and waved it with one hand, uttering 'Da-da-da Ba-ba!' A profound utterance to his father, who dabbed at the corners of his son's mouth post haste. As soon as George had decided to try his three teeth again and quieted down in the process, his parents began to talk quietly themselves.

'So what's this I hear from Robert about Sir Anthony Strallan coming here over Christmas, darling?' Matthew asked.

With that, his remarkable eyes flashed with interest as he waited to hear from his wife.

'Shhhh…. we need to keep that a secret, my love! Edith is not supposed to know about it if things are to be given a chance to resume.'

(Since the birth of George, Lady Mary found admissions of love for her husband coming to her lips from time to time, more often, to the delight of her ebullient Matthew.)

Mary sipped at her tea, catching Matthew's eye with a conspiratorial look that utterly convinced him of that even as he marvelled aloud:

'Ah! Is that right? Wonder what made him come around…'

_' _Probably the same realizations that brought us to our senses. Thank goodness some things do come right in the end!'

'I quite agree, Mary…. I quite agree,' Matthew said in his most tender tones, and moved to kiss her hand.

George chose that time to reach for his little silver cup full of milk, a thing his father had suggested he be allowed to have and the very thing his mother kept an eye on lest the child spill its contents. As soon as Matthew's lips had touched her knuckles, Mary reached for the little cup and raised it to her son's lips so Baby could drink from it. What a big boy now!

'But, Matthew, we shall just have to see if both of them agree now. I hope Edith warms up to Sir Anthony again and gives him another chance.'

'One can only wish what's best for both of them. If he loves her, and she loves him, let it be with eyes wide open now…'

Mary smiled at Matthew's wisdom, hoping that her sister still had the resolve she had shown when she was last headed for the altar.

_**CHAPTER TWO: Presents**_

The Branson family had gone to London in order to do their Christmas shopping, and Harrod's had agreed to ship the toys and clothing they had bought for both Sybbie and George all the way to York, no questions asked. At the moment, Tom was coming out of a place called 'The Poetry Bookshop', run by a chap named Harold Munro. He had two books under his arm, wrapped in brown paper and string, and grinned from ear to ear as he saw his darling Sybil pushing a perambulator in which their little girl presently napped. (She had purchased a gift for her husband from an engraving shop two doors down, and had it inscribed to him. Ah, let him think it was probably a tie pin for Lord Grantham or a letter opener for Matthew that she'd just obtained!)

'What are you smiling about, Irish Eyes?' Sybil asked, looking up from the sight of her daughter's tiny sneeze with a smile of her own.

'Oh, I'm always glad to see you, my darling! But I've just purchased two books of poetry, by a fellow named Yeats. It's musical compared to this "If I should die" stuff that was so popular a few years back. It's Irish, too, very lyrical. I think Matthew will like it.'

'You've gotten to know Matthew rather well, I see. He certainly loves to...'

At that moment Sybil felt their second child move. While this was far more pleasant than the indigestion she'd had after breakfast, it was a sign that she needed to rest a while. Tom noted the expression on her face with growing concern.

'Are you all right, Sybil?'

'Oh, yes… yes… don't mind me. The little one's just trying to get comfortable again, that's all,' she replied.

'Well, could we go to Lyons for a cup of tea?'

'How thoughtful of you, Tom. I could use a break, and so could Sybbie.'

The couple both looked down at their little girl asleep in the pram and smiled at each other, imagining how she might be on Christmas morning as soon as she had seen a new teddy bear in all its plush glory.

_**CHAPTER THREE: Christmas Past (especially for 'Matthew Lives Day', though in my heart Matthew has never died in the first place!)**_

A few nights later, Matthew, Mary, Sybil and Tom sat late in the drawing room, talking of their childhood memories concerning Christmas time. Both brothers-in-law were charmed at the reminiscences Mary and Sybil brought up and backed up:

'… That was the year you wanted a horse, Mary, and that was all we heard from you for days, until Papa finally had you put on your overcoat and galoshes and took you out there to see Diamond for the first time!'

'You remember it that well, Sybil, darling!' Mary chuckled. 'But do you remember your little bird? I think his name was Sunny.'

'Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Tom, Matthew, Sunny was my very own canary, a beautiful yellow bird. I got him for Christmas when I was nine. Mama told me Sunny was a he because he could sing, and only the males can sing.'

'What happened to him?' Matthew asked gently, noting the solemn look in her eyes.

'One day I came in from playing outside, and did not hear him chirp when I came into my room… he was gone, Matthew. But as long as he lived he lived up to his name. I had him until I was fourteen, and I took care of him all by myself!'

Tom was enchanted by the account.

'Would you ever want our Sybbie to have a canary when she's older?'

'Oh, that would be a lovely idea, Tom! Of course she would name the bird herself and that would be the beginning.'

There came Tom's story of how he had to sing the treble solo during Christmas Eve mass one year, and had been terribly nervous.

',,, Father Seamus finally came to me and said - of all things-! - "just drink a teaspoonful of honey in a shot of whiskey, and it'll flow out of you like Bevan's Brook". Well, I did, and it burned all the shyness out of me for one Mass. "You sang like an angel", they said to me, except for Kieran, my brother, who said I merely sang like a Henny Stag! Well, maybe the cockerels were there when Christ was born, so there you are, I suppose!'

And they all laughed, Sybil, Mary and Matthew. Finally it was Matthew's turn to speak of his childhood in Manchester.

'… Mother was as house-proud as she had a right to be when Father was still with us,' he declared. 'She would have our house all spic and span, and the smells of fir and bayberry mingled with the smell of Christmas goose and mince pies when we came home from church on Christmas Day. It was Father's favourite thing to eat, the Christmas goose. We didn't have the house so decorated for the first few years after he died, but in time I was the one reading from the Gospel and carving the roast goose. It made Mother feel a little better that I could step in and do what the man of the house does, once I was old enough.'

Matthew wiped a tear from his eye.

'It brings back memories, all right,' he finally said, his gentle voice so low, but not breaking.

Mary snuggled closer to him, and Sybil and Tom had come nearer in sympathy.


End file.
